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rainbowchewynuggets · 1 year

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TMA Encore #10

The fire alarm rings throughout the halls of the archives. A blue-white flare flashes intermittently, casting stark shadows and pins of light on the silvery worms that seep in through every seam and vent in the basement.

Jon skids to a halt as he sees Tim and Martin approach him.

Jon: Are you both alright?

Tim: We’re fine.

Jon: Good. Good. Sasha just headed off to intercept Jonah, so we–

Martin: Look out!

He pulls Jon by the back of his shirt as a writhing flow of worms burgeon from the aged molding of a nearby wall corner. A dozen of them flick outward from the mass toward the spot where Jon was just standing. A few make contact with his arm. He brushes them away feverishly.

Tim: This way!

Tim leads the other two down a long hallway without many weak points. They pass an empty bracket where a wall appliance should be. Some worms slither around on the floor, but can’t get a hold as long as the boys are running.

Tim: Jonah’s down here. I just saw him. So, she can’t be far.

Jon takes about a second and a half to wonder why Jonah wouldn’t be upstairs like he was in the tapes. Not-Jon could have lured him somehow. Easier prey.

Once they reach a safe intersection, Jon stops them and tries to get his bearings.

Jon: Okay, hold on. We need to get to our original places. Tim, you need to split off and head to the CO2 canister room. Martin and I will follow around.

Tim: Then, just come with me!

Jon: He’ll notice.

Tim: Yeah, screw this.

With a single hoist, Tim picks Jon up by the waist and carries him like a rolled-up carpet. Jon exclaims and struggles but can’t get free.

Tim: Come on, Martin.

Martin: R-right.

They march around the corner as fast as they can manage without losing grip of Jon.

Jon: What on earth do you think you’re doing?!

Tim: The real plan. We’re fighting our way out of here.

Jon: You can’t be serious. This isn’t an action movie, Tim!

Tim: Sasha’s idea, actually. Martin liked it too.

Jon fires a look at Martin.

Martin: Sorry.

Jon keeps protesting as they navigate and try to avoid drifts of worms. Pain shoots up their ankles and wrists as a few catch hold. Panic starts to set in as they encounter more and more blank walls and empty wall brackets. They reach the storage room and find it empty.

Martin: Uh, Tim…?

Tim: Where the fuck are the CO2 canisters?

Sasha had to catch herself. Nearly said “Jonah”.

The head of the Magnus Institute is in the middle of thwacking a cluster of worms crawling along the wall with a rolled-up manila folder. He picks a few off of his arm. His pants are tucked into his socks.

Elias: Sasha. You should evacuate--someone pulled the fire alarm. Not to mention there are these things.

Sasha: I know, I pulled it. We better find a route as far away from supporting walls as we can.

Elias: Of course. They’ll take longer to fill up a larger room.

And it’ll make it harder for Not-Jon to sneak up, she hopes. Jonah may be a monster, but they can’t have him feeding the other predator.

Elias: I think the closest room is artifact storage.

Sasha: ...No. No, I think I’d rather try the big file room over this way.

Elias: Why?

Sasha stumbles over the thought of going through there again. Even if the table is gone, any of the other cursed objects could get her. There may be no reason they’d strike now more than any time before, but the thought of her life ending in the same spot again barbs her.

Sasha: Guh–I–if they’re eating through wood fiber, I’d rather have papers fall on me than bathtubs and axes.

Elias: Ah. Good point.

They head off. She lets him lead by a little bit, weighing how much of this he might have been hoping for and how much is genuine surprise. She can’t help but worry how difficult he’ll make himself if he catches on that they know something.

Elias: Sasha?

Sasha: Y-yes?

Elias: Were you also the one who locked all the doors? And removed the CO2 canisters?

Sasha: What? No. I didn’t even know they were.

Her mind races.

Elias: I thought it might have been Jon. He seems very unwell lately.

Sasha: Is now really the time, sir?

They’ve nearly reached the file room.

Elias: You’re right. I can assess the team’s efficacy after this is over. And make changes from there.

Sasha: Well, it wasn’t any of us.

She speaks reflexively and only realizes the implication of another actor after taking a good pull at the file room door.

The second the door swings open, the two of them have to leap back as a wave of worms comes spilling out. They cover Sasha’s feet. She rips them off as quickly as she can, but she misses a few that make it into her socks. When she looks up, Jonah is gone.

Sasha: J–! *sigh*

She moves on in search of another path.

Tim, Jon, and Martin are running out of options. Tim has put Jon down, his muscles tired from toting him around and getting kicked for it. It doesn’t matter. There’s no way back to the original route without crossing rivers of worms. Jon is occupied with watching their blind spots with Martin. He reserves the right to bitch about being manhandled, however. Tim doesn’t even hear him. He’s laser focused on finding their way through the maze of corridors.

All the connecting rooms their plan is counting on are locked. Neither his or Martin’s best shoulder charge can break them down. They don’t really have time to try, anyway. It feels like the worms are coming out faster and faster. The three of them all have little tag-alongs on their arms and legs too deep to dig out. Martin can swear one went down the back of his shirt. There are no CO2 canisters anywhere. The air smells stale, almost putrid.

It feels like they’ve been down there for hours by the time they reach the stairs. Tim stops at the intersection and looks around.

Martin: Wasn’t Sasha supposed to meet us?

Tim calls her name down the halls. No answer. The three of them unanimously decide that they’re not going anywhere without her and dive back in. As they turn around, Jon notices that the heavy security door at the top of the stairs is shut. He’s never seen it shut.

Jon: It looks like our exits are being cut off. The tunnels might be our only option after all.

Tim: I swear to god, I’ll take that door off its hinges if I have to. We’re not going down there again.

Martin doesn’t say anything. He nervously glances between them and the halls with his jaw set.

The putrid smell intensifies.

Jon and Tim graduate to arguing over directions and minutia of risk. The rising tide of silver worms make their choices narrower and narrower, yet they both find grounds to disagree. It reaches a point where they’re fighting over whether or not to open a door. Martin’s eyes and stomach hurt from the smell. He can swear it’s getting stronger the longer they wait. Worms press in from the way they came. He holds his breath, takes a step between his teammates, and opens the door himself.

Tim turns and runs.

Sasha has lost track of time. She was definitely supposed to meet Tim and the others by now. Whenever she thinks she’s found a valid path forward, she ends up with worms or locked doors and has to double back and circle around. Her fingers turn cold as she tries not to picture what kind of trouble they could be dealing with while they’re separated. She hopes Jon wasn’t too irate.

Part of her might be willing to be bolder if the other part didn’t already know what would happen. Death by misadventure. Again. That is, if Not-Jon doesn’t elect to pay her back for her meddling first. She tries to listen for footsteps, but the gut-churning squirming is drowning out everything else. And then, there’s that smell. She pushes forward.

Within the next couple minutes, she thinks she does hear something. A voice, maybe. Instinct tells her to hide, but she isn’t about to go anywhere near the walls. She doesn’t even feel like she should stop moving.

Jon: Back this way.

Sasha: Jon? Jon!

She sprints around the next corner and skips over a heap of worms. She nearly trips.

Her heart sinks through the floor.

Sasha: Oh, god. How–why–?

Martin: Prentiss cornered us. He cleared our way out… kind of. But I think he’s okay. He’s just unconscious.

Jon: We’re trapped. We need to get to the tunnels.

Sasha glances at Martin. He nods decisively.

She marches ahead and scouts their way to the room at the end of the hall. Guilty frustrated tears pool in her eyes as she approaches the door she had risked her friends’ safety to avoid. She kicks away some worms and tries to see if it’ll even open.

The doorknob to the office slides easily in its socket. There are two flashlights, extra batteries, and a first aid kit waiting for them beside the trapdoor. Sasha looks at Jon. He shakes his head like, “Wasn’t me.”

They all know who it was. This was planned. There was never any escape.

Martin sighs.

Martin: Come on. Almost there.

Sasha lifts the carpet-covered plank a crack. Seeing nothing immediately alarming, she opens it the rest of the way and holds it so the others can carefully pick their way down. She grabs the gear and follows.

The tunnels aren’t as quiet as they should be. Soft unintelligible echoes drift up through the darkness in overlapping strains. The noise does nothing to describe what activity could be going on deeper in the prison–only to remind that there is, indeed, something there. Jon tries to ignore it as he holds the flashlight for Martin and Sasha while they work on stabilizing Tim.

He watches the shallow rise and fall of Tim’s stained shirt, trying to keep his worries off of all the red holes and whatever he isn’t seeing with his back turned. His mind still finds room to wander and berate. There wasn’t actually that much evidence to suggest that Not-Jon would find them on their first escape attempt. If he had planned the mess they’re in now, he might have been counting on Jon to stall before. If he hadn’t, they might have made it out. But he just had to get them caught. He had to be sure. The view of the flashlight quivers back and forth. He tucks the handle under his arm.

Once in a while, a sharper noise gets Sasha and Martin’s attention. Jon snaps around with the flashlight extended accusatorily, finding nothing there but some aimless stray worms. They resume.

Martin tries to be precise with the corkscrew, but the wounds are already deep. Slowly, the worms come out, one by one.

Sasha: Maybe we should stop and let him rest a bit. The bleeding might be too much.

Martin puts the screw and Tim’s arm down gratefully. He wipes off his stiff hands on a cheap rag from the kit.

Martin: *dryly* Anybody want to go next?

Jon looks a little sick and hangs his head.

Sasha wraps and ties off a bandage layered with gauze around Tim’s forearm.

Sasha: I, um, might have tipped Jonah off on my way down here. For all we know, he’s already headed for the hills.

Jon: Not unless he miraculously got through to unlock the doors. I’d bet he’s down here somewhere.

Sasha: Along with our old pal.

Martin: I guess we’ll have to figure out a way to keep them away from each other. Fast.

Jon and Sasha look at him.

Martin: Well, what else are we gonna do? Who knows what’s going to happen if he gets what he wants?

Jon: *glancing at Tim* It’s out of our hands, Martin.

“He’s not wrong.”

Jon keeps the flashlight trained on the apparition. The other Martin is perfectly unbothered in the harsh light. The group’s alarm subsides.

Sasha: You must be with The Thing That Used To Be Jonathan Sims?

Not-Martin: I suppose you could say that. Which… would make me What Remains of Martin Blackwood.

Jon, Martin, Sasha: Not-Martin.

NM: Sure.

Not-Martin gives Tim a quick appraisal. He gently rolls back Tim’s pant leg to the knee, revealing a whole series of holes that Martin hasn’t gotten to yet. The others flinch, unsure if it’d be a good idea to try to stop him.

NM: Good lord. That went badly, didn’t it?

His tone is devoid of concern. Tim sucks air as the other Martin scores his hand up the red-riddled leg, forcing the worms out as burnt black coils. The skin is instantly cauterized and healed. The others stare in appalled fascination.

NM: I’m really not a fan of the Desolation… or the Flesh. But they can be made to come in handy.

Tim lolls his head, not quite able to regain consciousness. Not-Martin gives him a quick slap across the face, and he’s wide awake. Tim presses up against the wall, his attention flicking between the two Martins with instant suspicion.

Tim: This the other one?

NM: The one that just saved your leg. Can I see your arm?

Tim notices the absent pain and does some calculations in his head. He submits his arm. The wounds are completely healed, if with an unfavorable hissing sound. Not to mention Not-Martin’s ice hold hands. Tim feels his arm over. Nothing seems acutely out of place. Did his arm hair always grow in that direction?

NM: Sorry it took me so long to catch up.

Jon: Were you part of the other me’s plan all along?

NM: Can’t imagine I would be. I’m trying to stop him.

As Not-Martin works on the rest of them, he explains his objective. He does so as casually as outlining a to-do list. Jon guesses that he’s been here before, too.

In short, Not-Jon really does want to prevent an apocalypse, but his plan is doomed to fail. His logic is deeply swayed by the hunger of the Fears, and he’s unable to see that. Not-Martin keeps trying to interfere, so Not-Jon stalls him as much as he can between interactions with the group.

He asks the group some questions. They don’t exactly trust him, so they give him a general summary of their ordeal from the past few months. No details. The corner of Not-Martin’s mouth pulls thoughtfully. He says that things probably went roughly the way that Not-Jon expected. He usually winds up having to deal with Jonah in the Panopticon.

Jon: Then what was the point of having me hide the statements?

Tim: Nothing. Just keeping you busy.

Jon restrains a glare, unable to argue.

Not-Martin’s gaze searches somewhere above them.

NM: Well… maybe not nothing.

Below, all the worms on the ground wither and die.

NM: And there goes Jane.

Not-Jon struggles to hold together as he overtakes the vacuum created by the absence of Jane. His throat fills up with flossy spores. His skin rots and turns blue with ugly uneven patches of mold. His old worm wounds turn to greasy pits as his tissues shrivel and tear. He is a vague decomposing shape on unsteady legs.

He imagines pulling himself upward, through the rising tide of the Corruption’s desire to rot and hollow. If he keeps pulling, he’ll be able to surmount it. He’s done it countless times before. But it just keeps coming. The pulling is hard. It’s tiring. It hurts so much. He doesn’t stop.

Jon notices Not-Martin through the floor. Not-Martin finishes healing the others and stands up. Not-Jon grits his teeth and steps away from the wall. The Corruption slowly recedes.

————

First

The fact that I hadn’t introduced Not-Martin yet was one of the big reasons I didn’t give up on this project. So happy he’s finally here.

#the magnus archives #mag200 spoilers #magnus pod #tma fancomic #tma encore 10 #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #sasha james #tim stoker #jonah magnus #elias bouchard #the corruption #cw parasites #cw pitted skin #cw blood #cw decomposition

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toffeebrew · 8 months

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Warning! Descriptions of decomposition!

I can't stop thinking, about chip jrwi being literally undead. this will be the last post about it today I swear.

Now that chip is undead. Does he like... rot? Are bugs just gonna start following him? Like what level of decomposition are we talking about. Are his insides just gonna become like goop? Is he gonna start losing (or having different pigmentation in his) hair or nails? Are his eyes gonna get that clouded dead look? Would he end up like the hollowed we saw in ep 103-105 ish? I don't think the arachnid pirates were described as "rotted." But would it be different for a human? Obviously he's not just gonna fall to pieces (hopefully) but I wonder what will change in his appearance over time. I have so many questions and I curious to see what the answers are...

#jrwi chip #jrwi spoilers #jrwi riptide spoilers #sorry this is gross #I just can't stop thinking about it #my brain is full of worms #jrwi 109 spoilers #jrwi 103 spoilers #1 am thoughts #this is also assuming he stays undead long enough for it to matter #cw decomposition #toffeesbabbles

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bonemaggotsludge · 6 months

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fatummortem · 2 years

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@fiddlingonthetympanic asked:

She's reading an actual book this time, Alexa piping a randomized selection of Danny Elfman compositions into the room while her coffee cools on the end table. The Michael Crichton paperback in her hands has a broken spine and a stained cover, something she snagged from an abandoned park bench right before the rain started. (Somewhere, an elitist jackass is sneering about 'pop literature'. Tess likes it fine.)

There's a rhythm to her actions as rain patters the window and bright red maple wilt in the dampness: she reads a chapter, gets up, goes to do something else for a few minutes, then sits down to read again. Repeat. Again, as if the written word can't hold her attention.

At Daken's arrival--and at the end of another chapter--she folds a sharp crease at the corner of a page, oh-so-casual about this vile method of bookmarking.

She gets up, offers him nothing more than an absent greeting of, 'beautiful afternoon,' and proceeds to refill her coffee mug on the other side of the room.

Somewhere in the caverns of Asgard, a Troll leers at nothing in particular. Accepting Random Novels

Before Daken even steps into the room, the song she has playing on Alexa changes onto a different one, even if it had already played before he hears which musician she’s listening to. He doesn’t step into the room until the lyrics Poison start to fill the room. If it was by accident or on purpose, it’s hard to tell. The song, however, just repeats once it’s finished.

He doesn’t even spend the time judging her on her books choices, he doesn’t care enough about what she’s reading to look. But that sound. The sound of a page being bent & folded causes his blue hues to narrow on her for a few seconds. A soundless snort slipping out right after. Of course she just has to continue abusing the book. It’s not like she has any reason to keep it in a good condition or that it’s obvious she spend her time rereading the book or anything.

Daken hopes it crumbles to dust within her disrespectful criminal heartless hands.

He just ignores her, going to the fridge to see what was there, not even bothering with his usually tea. From the selection he really should have.

The troll under Asgard is obviously leering at her abuse of the written word.

#fiddlingonthetympanic #daken ask #daken asks #music video triggers as follows...#cw flash #cw body horror #cw decomposition #cw animal decomposition #cw eye horror #Same artist just the song 'happy'#daken being dramatic? naaaahhhhhhhhhhh

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w3llf4ll · 3 months

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CW: Drawn Decomposition + Blood + Horror

Finished my last work in progress, I’m pretty proud of it.

#well’s art #digital art #original character #cw horror #cw decomposition #cw blood #horror #oc #original art #art

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thekadster · 2 years

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cliquetober day 29 & 30: jump & stage

Fandom: Twenty One Pilots

Word Count: 605

Trigger Warnings: Implied death, mention of human decomposition

Author’s Notes: Wrote something about Dan and Sally! This was inspired by the part of the livestream where their eyes turned yellow and they started decaying, so I wanted to expound on that and humanize them a little.

I swear tomorrow's writing is going to be a happy one this is the last angst I promise KJDFGHDF

❝ Dan and Sally were two of many who pledged their faith to what was real, as cold and harsh as it may be. They were willing to fight for a life outside of Dema.

But their leap of faith would cost them.❞

also read it on ao3!

Every Bandito has a choice to make.

In the world of Trench, there are always two options: faith and sleep. One must pick between the world inside Dema’s walls and the world outside it; allegiance to one means animosity to another. Faith to the Bishops, or faith to freedom? Remaining asleep to the truth, or remaining asleep to what vialism dictates?

Dan and Sally were two of many who pledged their faith to what was real, as cold and harsh as it may be. After finally seeing Dema for the deathtrap that it was, sleep felt more like a betrayal than anything. So, they promised each other that somehow, someway, they would find a way out.

Working with the Banditos in any form was strictly prohibited, so they had to keep their plans under wraps. But when the two of them heard about Clancy, they only grew more intrigued.

Rumor had it that their friend was able to escape through the underground tunnels and breach the city walls. They wanted to ask him so many questions about the outside; how it looked like, how it felt like, whether it was anything like what the Bishops had told them. They’d only heard of it in stories, the mountains and rivers and forests left entirely to their imagination.

The thought of following after him was daunting, but they were willing to take that leap of faith. If he did it, they figured they could, too.

But life turns plans upon their head, as they say.

Their spirit and drive were undeniable, but they got caught. One unlucky turn, one guard that just so happened to be there, and their whole mission fell apart. The act of defying the Bishops in such a way was unforgivable. Their life would become nothing more than three letters and the four walls of a cell, isolated from each other and the rest of the world.

And so, until the very end, that’s how it would be.

But their story wasn’t over yet.

The Bishops had an idea for a talk show. It was one of many ways of showing their followers that the city was worth staying for. This new wave of television and music appeared almost innocent, the saturation trying to match the picture-perfect idea of “home”. They would prove to the citizens that life in Dema wasn’t as bad as one might think, that the rebels were liars all along.

And what better way to do that than with two of their own?

Dan and Sally, even after their passing, still had a use to the Bishops. They were the hosts of this new show, the poster children for this new era. Dressed up in their Sunday best and bright smiles, they became nothing more than puppets on a stage. Every action of theirs was controlled by the invisible strings of the supernatural, and yet it appeared so uncannily human. Like their eyes were never empty, like their hearts were still beating.

And they wouldn’t be the last, either. The Bishops’ power could only maintain them for so long before their bodies would begin to decay at an alarming rate. The human body cannot sustain so much physical activity after rigor mortis, no matter how artificial; and it would eventually give in to natural rot. Besides, Good Day Dema always needed new faces for their episodes.

The only ones who knew the truth were their family and friends, those who knew them personally. But they could only watch as the two smiled and laughed for the whole city to see, advertising the very thing they always swore to hate.

#twenty one pilots #twenty øne piløts #twenty one pilots fanfiction #lisden #sacarver #dan lisden #sally sacarver #dema #scaled and icy #cw dead body #cw implied death #cw decomposition #drabble #cliquetober #cliquetober 2022 #sulat ni kad

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roadkill-raccoons · 1 year

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Pomegranates, the fruit of the dead :)

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deadboystims · 1 month

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deadboy stimboard

ᯓ★ x x x , x x x , x x x

#cw animal death #decomposition #mold #mushroom #deadkin #deadboy #graveyard #ghostkin #stim #gif #stimboard #zombiekin #otherkin #necrokin #undeadkin #corpsekin #dead kin #pride #horror

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sixty-silver-wishes · 2 months

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I want to recreate the milais ophelia painting, but I want to make her look like an actual drowned corpse. no flowing golden locks, no redness in the cheeks, no pink lips and flower petals. I want to paint a corpse you don't want to stare at. I want to paint mottled, bloating flesh. wrinkled hands and decay as the worms set into her skin. I want to paint a dead girl who isn't aspirational- not youth and beauty frozen in time, but the natural progression of time onto a body.

or maybe instead, I want to paint ophelia as an old woman. She didn't get to be an old woman, but what would it look like, for an old woman to be face-up in the water in a pretty dress and covered in flowers? would you still say, "how beautiful?" would it still be tragic, if she had been able to live more of her life?

#rambles #decomposition cw #death cw #I feel like there are other things I should tag this but idk #ophelia #art stuff

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temporaltourguide · 12 days

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i know how everybody loves the bathroom in saw 2 so.

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rainbowchewynuggets · 1 year

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TMA Encore #14b

Not-Martin cannot reach his partner.

Not-Jon isn’t listening. Even now, as the man drags his screeching nightmare of a body around, the end of which is held in unseen space by his masters. The worst part is that he knows it. He knows he has failed to control the hunger, and he still won’t stop. With his back against the wall, he managed to phase through it into a whole new realm of delusion.

NJ: It’s still happening all over the world. We can’t just leave it like this.

Not-Martin could hear Not-Jon’s voice carried through the field of obstacles set between them just after the hellscape had risen.

NM: We weren’t supposed to fix the entire world. We only wanted to undo our part in it.

Not-Jon then told him what he saw in his flash of true omniscience. The apocalypse could still happen a hundred different ways. Not as closely managed as theirs had been, but still teetering on certainty more than either of them had dared to fear.

Not-Martin could almost see it as the image crept out of the crack in the barrier Not-Jon holds between himself and his partner. Not-Martin had had just enough time to question if it’s only true of this world or of every world they’ve attempted to save before perishing the entire possibility. He begged and threatened, finding no argument beyond what has driven them so far. Their mission is over. They don’t belong here. They have no future here. It’s time to go.

He cannot reach his partner.

Not-Martin moves silently through bucking, shifting halls. There is no choice but to do his worst. The long sharp piece of industrial steel in his hand should be enough. The enigma that used to be the prison can’t hurt him at this point, and it isn’t trying to. Not-Jon can barely make controlled use of his abilities and doesn’t want to. He only tries to push Not-Martin away. The two know each other too well for the contest to be swift. Only now, Not-Jon is marred by the degradation of his body and the panic of the threat of premature death. Not-Martin can feel his vulnerability. It draws him forward.

Then, he finds him cornered. Motionless. Staring.

Not-Martin has the perfect shot to do it. Multiple shots. The makeshift dagger twitches in his grip but doesn’t move. He can’t even take a step closer. The grisly fate of being the stronger candidate to carry out this Extinction wrests his will. Cradling Jon as he died and waking up alone in the house on Hill Top Road stretch on for eternity in his memory. A hint slips through the barrier of the sheer enormity of the hunger’s pressure. He feels the fear that the Entities soak up from Not-Jon. The creature knows that if he surrenders, he’d be leaving his heart behind with all of his pain. If they shared it, it would grow until they tore at each other before eventually moving on to the rest of the world. He can’t bring himself to kill them both. It paralyzes him just as it does Not-Martin. He can’t die. He has to hold it all down just the way it is, or the Entities will win.

Not-Martin tries to shut it out, but the hellscape seizes the exposure of fear. It divides the chamber in two and pulls their occupants miles apart. Not-Martin is dragged down through the floor and encased in a cell within layers of brick and cement. Feeling like he’s out of moves, he surrenders to his isolation.

He cannot reach his partner.

Tim and Sasha sit in silence on the peninsula as the cracked tape plays.

It stops with a click.

Listening to the tape wasn’t very comforting. It at least prompts them to break the quiet and process things aloud for a while.

Neither of them fully forgive Jon. They had already gleaned that Jon’s worst nature was being pressed by an entity that knew him inside and out. They did try to warn him. Though, they do give him points for realizing his mistake, if too late. They’re both in the same boat with him, really.

Sasha ponders her relationship to agency and risk. When she found out about her death at the hands of the Stranger, she was so afraid and upset because she felt like she had had her life and participation in something important torn away and misused. But now that she’s here, after making her best efforts not to die and not to sit out, she finds that she has still been made into a tool. In hindsight, the right thing to do really was not to participate at all. How could she have known? The trap was shut before she knew it was there.

Tim takes the time to unravel some grief. After losing Danny, he had investigated the death as hard as he did because part of him hoped that he could hunt down whatever did this. As if it could be held accountable. Getting confirmation from Not-Jon that it was something real and evil that could potentially be killed was gratifying. But it all turned out to be so much bigger and deeper than he’d imagined. And now, it’s made its way inside him and his friends. They’re part of that “other”. If he gets up now, his drive to see things set right will only be used against them.

Martin is the most worrying case. It had at first seemed that his outbursts of bravery were signs of him coming out of his shell. In hindsight, it was a sign of something much worse.

They think that perhaps the best, most resilient thing they can do against their tormentors now is nothing.

In his quest to find Not-Jon, Martin stumbles upon Not-Martin’s cell through a small hole in the surrounding materials. He almost passed by, thinking it was empty at first. It’s hard to see through the haze that now follows him everywhere.

Not-Martin fails to express his surprise that Martin made it this far and the clear reason why, based on his faded pallor. Martin’s face is unreadable. He reacts mechanically without a word, trying to pry the door of the cell. Not-Martin stops him. It would be better if he stayed. His voice is low, like the hum of air flowing through an empty vessel. Martin lets his discomfort show, if only slightly.

Martin: You could have told me that this apathy thing was part of the Lonely.

Not-Martin muses humorlessly that he wouldn’t have been able to abstain from the Entities’ power either way. This way, he has some leverage.

Martin stifles a bitter frown.

NM: Are you going after him?

Martin: *heavy sigh* Yep.

NM: Take this.

He gives Martin the sharpened steel. He admits that he’s never going to be able to stop Not-Jon. Martin will have a better chance since Not-Jon won’t be expecting him. He hasn’t been watching Martin for a while. If he’s remorseful enough, he might even hold back.

Martin: It’d be smart to take care of you first, wouldn’t it?

The sharp end of the steel gravitates toward his double’s throat.

NM: Well, I think I’d be good for it at this point. But he won’t play fair if you do. I’ll try my best to stay put.

Martin takes a minute to consider.

He leaves.

The fog that follows Martin begins to dissipate as he arrives at the wreckage of the Institute at the very top of the island’s interior. The field of loose boards and shrapnel creates a consistent chaos that makes it difficult to distinguish out-of-place shapes.

He wades further into the wreckage.

Further. Further.

Suddenly, a mass of metal tines and canvas pulls itself deeper into the junkheap with the sound of crunching glass. He follows.

The heap grades down into a steep hill where larger pieces of rooms slowly drift. There, he finds his target half-submerged in the debris. It shoves away slabs of brick wall and window from the center of the pit, making awful noise. It doesn’t appear to notice as Martin approaches under the din.

Dark purple tissue rises and falls beneath the missing ribs on Not-Jon’s right side. Martin readies the steel dagger.

Closer…

Martin tightens his fingers and plunges the weapon into the gap. Wet reeking soil and maggots spill out, covering his hand.

Nothing else happens. Martin retracts.

The tissue tightens, but the creature ignores him.

Martin looks for another spot, wondering if he could get away with tearing the thing open neck to hip so that it can’t move.

As if reading his mind, the creature raises its head.

NJ: Your hands are cold.

It speaks in a voice nearly unrecognizable. The faint remains of the voice he knows are what freezes him solid.

NJ: You should have turned around while you still had the chance.

Martin readies himself for an attack, but one doesn’t come.

Not-Jon stops. He hoists himself out of the wreckage and looks at a figure cresting the lip of the pit. Martin turns, and an incredulous thought crosses his mind.

Oh my god, is that Jon?

Jon, a dot in the distance, shouts and throws a pipe at the creature. It misses by several feet, but the creature recoils all the same. The trash starts to shift, rapidly increasing the distance between them and Jon. The creature itself dives into the wreckage and out of sight. Jon scrambles forward, hopelessly outpaced by the still expanding ground.

Martin doesn’t move. Or, he doesn’t try to. The world around him twists and loses definition. The myriad images taken by each movement of his eyes suddenly don’t add up. He feels dizzy. He doesn’t move.

When it finally stops, Jon slides in next to him, panting. He steadies himself on Martin’s arm.

Jon: Are you alright? I-I didn’t mean to do it like that. I was just scared I wouldn’t find you again.

Martin: You... you did that?

Jon has to sit down, more than a little dizzy himself. He gets Martin caught up on his strange developments. When he’s finished, he pushes his disheveled hair back and looks up at him. Martin looks positively ghostly to Jon.

Jon: It’s happening to you too, isn’t it?

Martin nods, sitting down next to him. Up close, he can see that Jon’s clothes are torn and stained in more places than they had been before. So are his own. Two scraggy little rats huddling in a monster’s trash yard. He puts down the dagger.

Martin: It didn’t work. He shrugged it off.

Jon winces and lets his head list forward.

Jon: Right. Of course he did.

Martin: I should have been more suspicious when Not-Martin told me to go for it. But I couldn’t… stop myself, I guess.

He swallows hard.

Marin: Turns out he’s as tied in with the Entities as the other Jon, after all. For all we know, they’ve both been having their strings pulled this whole time.

Jon: And I think I know what their masters want.

Jon outlines a theory he’s been formulating since their departure at the waterfall. He’s being marked on purpose to prepare him to replace Not-Jon as their avatar. Not-Jon is dying too quickly, and Not-Martin is too unmotivated. If Martin marks him with the Lonely, him killing Not-Jon would replicate the replacement ritual that killed the first Jonah. He’s already close with the power he has. That’s why the creature was afraid of Jon. Why he tried to separate him from Martin.

Martin observes that they would just be repeating the cycle again. Jon defeatedly says that he doesn’t think they can escape the cycle, but they can mitigate its trajectory from here. If Jon had control of the hellscape, he could let the others go free. Then, they could come back with a cement truck before Jon loses the will to stay in the enigma. He, Not-Martin, and the intruding Entities would be left to die. The rest of them could go on.

Fog thickens around them.

Martin was seriously considering the plan up until that last part. Assuming that he wouldn't make it out alive had excused him from having to think about where this escapade would lead. If he survived, he would have to live on with the guilt of dooming Jon and being stuck as a creature of the Lonely. The Fears might still escape through him. Reflex tells him to push the thought away, but it doesn’t go. It’s too important.

Blood suddenly rushes through his brain, as if he’d slammed the brake at high speed just before he would have rammed into traffic. His pulse pushes the coldness in his veins out into the air.

The sureness of the plan vanishes. It feels like desperate haggling with a devil that controls all the variables.

Martin: No. I can’t. You can’t. It’s not gonna fix it. You said so before.

Jon: It’s too late, Martin. We have to!

Jon’s voice quivers with palpable uncertainty.

Martin is speechless.

The Lonely turns on them, closes in, and swallows them both.

The fear that had just gripped Martin materializes. He can’t find Jon or anyone. The more he calls out, the more he can feel the ice in his body, needling through his muscles and bones. He can’t move. His legs are lead. He has to go find Jon.

Move damn, it. Move.

Hot sears on cold as he takes a single step. Every impulse tells him to stop. They warn that he’s giving up on the only power that gives him an edge. He’ll be vulnerable. Killed. Used.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want this.

Another step. He nearly falls. He wants to live. They are going to live through this. It’s the only way.

Jon appears to be outside. The hellscape has spread. The civilians all around him are suffering in terror. Their screams and writhing forms are muted and gauzy, as if he exists on a plane apart from them.

He isn’t one of them anymore. He did this to them.

His shadow is too long, too large. He looks down, and all we see is color. Above, the Entities fill the sky.

He feels his connection with them as a person identifies an appendage as an extension of themself. They’re not as devious as he had imagined. Dull, abstract amalgams of the fears of the living more than creatures in their own right. Their “voices” are loud, but they don’t command him with speech. They act on impulse. Their base repulsion at impending death and the desperation to feed are only reflections of that which dwells in their creators. In Jon.

It’s human. Almost pitiful. Though, their endless size makes Jon acutely aware that he is their appendage. They pay no heed as he pleads, “Stop… stop… stop… stop.”

The only path clear of victims lies straight ahead of him, stretching on toward another enormous shape on the horizon. He resolves to follow that path to its conclusion. The haunting chorus wanes behind him as he walks. His shadow passes over a sliver of black. The dagger. He picks it up.

The enormous shape ahead begins to shrink, as if retreating further into the distance. Jon quickens pace to catch it. That coward. He’s not going to let it get away.

The shape shrinks further and further and further until…

Not-Jon tries to talk Jon out of it as he approaches. He tells him about the other possibilities he saw for the apocalypse.

Jon doesn’t reply.

Not-Jon says Jon will never be able to stay in the enigma any more than he has been able to entomb himself. He always knew that he should have and tried many times, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The urge to get out and act always won out.

Jon: I’ll risk it.

Not-Jon: You don’t want this.

Jon: I have to.

Not-Jon: No, you don’t. You shouldn’t.

Jon’s expression twitches, but he keeps coming. He can feel his emotions twist and pull him back form the inside. From the Web. From the Eye. He's sick of being manipulated.

NJ: I’m sorry. I never should have laid this all on your shoulders. I thought that if I had the right to torment anyone over this, it was you. But I could hardly have prevented what happened to me any more than you could prevent what’s happening to you. Trying to take control now–believe me, it won’t make you feel better.

Jon lunges.

Jon: Stop groveling. Do you really expect me to just let it happen and pretend I couldn’t have done anything?

Not-Jon recognizes the exhausted contempt in his rival’s voice. Just as it had from a version of Martin he once knew, who had petrified and ground down to become the one he knows now. Just as it had from the friends he lost a lifetime ago.

He could keep trying to scare his younger self out of this, but he suddenly thinks he’s already done enough damage. Instead, he reaches with difficulty into a long-buried vault to offer something more compassionate. He can feel himself tearing apart as he does.

NJ: It doesn’t have to be that dire.

He says that the best successes he ever had were small–trying to help other people through the ordeal rather than directly tackling a force that always outmatched him. It added up, and lives were spared. It helped him keep going.

Jon’s expression grows complicated.

Jon: They won’t be spared if they die at the end.

NJ: They might not.

Jon: Prove it.

He searches his double’s eyes when an answer doesn’t come.

Jon: You don’t believe a word of what you’re saying.

The worn, scarred hands that hold the dagger back tremble with exhaustion.

Not-Jon: No. I… I can’t.

Jon pushes with all his might, the dagger’s edges biting at his hand. But the broken man is still made of iron. Still trying to force him to obey with the power he insists he doesn’t want.

Frustration boils in Jon’s chest. With little hesitation, he burrows into Not-Jon’s mind to force him to give up rather than being coerced himself. To tear away whatever resilience is still holding the creature up.

That’s where he finds it. The obsession that has grown in him like a tumor over decades. There is nothing to hold or take away. It is an absence. An abyssal certainty of doom.

Grasping at the nothing inside of Not-Jon brings Jon an epiphany.

It only makes sense. Thinking that life could continue after the worst-case scenario would contradict the urgency of the mission that keeps him from giving in to the Entities. At the same time, his masters need that fear to manipulate their puppet and sustain themselves.

The cycle turns on that certainty. Questioning it might be the only way out.

Jon could radically, illogically trust the road ahead and hope for the best, making whatever improvements are within his reach. In that way, at least, he cannot be controlled by his fear or despair.

The thought is asinine. It goes against every value of logic he has. The thought of the inherent risk alone is killing him.

Not-Jon reads it in his face, the jagged steel point inches from his chest.

NJ: You understand now, don’t you?

Jon sets his jaw.

Jon: You lied to us–threatened us–because you said it was the only way. But did you actually try trusting us before? Or was that another lie?

NJ: We did. Many times. They always got to you in the end and drove you apart. Most of you didn’t even make it past Prentiss. I had to try something else when I felt the ceiling starting to come down on me.

Jon: So it was more reliable to manipulate us to put us where you wanted us. You didn’t actually intend for us to get killed.

Not-Jon needs a moment to summon another breath.

NJ: Wasn’t planning on it.

Jon: But if it hadn’t worked, you would have done worse.

The creature has to steady itself, but he manages a nod without looking away.

Jon: Because what can’t you afford to do when the alternative is oblivion?

Not-Jon holds his steadfast gaze.

NJ: Would you honestly have done any better if you were me?

Jon: Well, like you said. I don’t have to be you.